Dynamic
by Balanced
Summary: Over the years, House and Wilson begin to slowly form their infamous friendship.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**Oh my gah! Are you kidding me? I stop watching House because it had gotten super depressing and then they finally explain how House and Wilson met, thus making Dynamic an alternate universe? Oh HELL no. And so my OCD wins out again and thus begins the rewrite compete with new chapters. Because there's nothing else like Hilson.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Not House, Wilson, or even the name "Sammy's" for a bar. (It's the name of a local bar where I'm from.)

_Dynamic_

_**

* * *

House:**__ You value our friendship more than your ethical responsibilities.  
__**Wilson: **__Our friendship __**is**__ an ethical responsibility.

* * *

_

Gregory House is bored. This doesn't seem possible, as this particular medical conference is being held in New Orleans, one of his favorite cities in the world, but there it is. He's bored. And he's thinking that if he has to endure one more lecture on the medical advancements of the pharmaceutical companies then he's going to hold his breath until he passes out. He brightens at the thought.

But he still has over an hour before he needs to return to the conference room so he heads downstairs to the hotel bar in search of something interesting to entertain him.

There's Dr. Krober at a table to his right, but House is pretty sure he would have gotten the test for tuberculosis by now. But that last conference had been _fun_.

He sighs and turns his attention to the jukebox in the corner of the room, playing the end of 'Leave a Tender Moment Alone.' The man he noticed earlier carrying around those divorce papers, Dr. Wilson, is glaring bravely at the guilty party. "If you insist on controlling the music selection," he tells the other guy, clearly having to make an effort to keep his temper under control, "please play something else. Eight times is plenty."

House smiles a little more cheerfully and takes a front row seat.

The larger, more muscular man stares back at Dr. Wilson, undeterred by the younger doctor's demands, and inserts more change into the jukebox.

"This isn't happening," House overhears Wilson mutter. He watches as he strides across the room, and slams his hand down on the counter. Then, with one final look at his Budweiser, he hurls the bottle at the large, ornate mirror hanging above the bar. The glass splinters and cracks from side to side.

House can't remember the last time he was so surprised. He slowly leans forward in his chair to examine the damage more closely, then emits a low whistle. Wilson is probably going to have bad luck for, like, the rest of his life.

A bustling sound emerges from the doorway as four security guards enter the room. They glance at the mirror, exchange a look, and approach Dr. Wilson.

"You're going to have to come with us, sir," says the oldest. He turns the young doctor around and handcuffs his wrists.

An enthusiastic cheer erupts from House's left and an apparently drunk middle-aged man throws his shot glass at the mirror as well. House sighs, gets to his feet, and follows the parade out the door.

* * *

Bailing someone out of jail, as it turns out, is a long and annoying process. You have to wait for them to get booked, call a lawyer, pay the fine, and get all their stuff together. House glances impatiently at his watch and then practically leaps up when the sound of footsteps reaches his ears.

Once standing in front of the older man, Wilson stares at him, groping for words. "I don't understand," he says, mystified. "They said I would have to stay at least 30 days."

House shrugs. "I took care of it." He gestures to the exit and the pair begins slowly walking to House's car.

"I don't know how to thank-" Wilson begins, but House cuts him off quickly.

"A drink should suffice. I saw a bar on the way to the Big House."

Wilson smiles a little sardonically. "Well, it IS New Orleans."

Ten minutes later they're sitting at a table in a place called "Sammy's" while waitresses in silver bathing suits deliver drinks.

"So, why did you bail me out," Wilson eventually asks, nursing a Michelob.

House rolls his eyes and pushes his own Long Island Iced Tea to the man. "You need this more than I do," he explains. He takes a swig of the beer and watches Wilson stare at him quietly. He wonders what the doctor will think, predicts he'll get up and leave.

But all Wilson says is, "You're Dr. House?"

He smiles. "My reputation precedes me. It's always nice to meet a fan."

"I read an article you wrote about pheochromocytoma a couple of years back. It was good- a little over-analytical, maybe-"

"Woah, excuse me?" House interrupts. "Over-analytical?"

Wilson shrugs. "Just my opinion. I mean, you obviously knew what you were talking about. I just thought you overdid it a little with the norepinephrine."

"It's the key."

"I got that."

House frowns a little darkly. "So, anyway, specialty?"

"Oncology."

"God, depressing much?"

"I know, the dying can be so aggravating."

"Married?" Not that he's ever wrong but it's better safe than sorry.

"No," Wilson responds with a nervous look in his eyes.

There's another lull until House asks, "Do you know Dr. Krober?"

Wilson nods. "The single most arrogant doctor I have ever met."

"I convinced him at the last conference that he had tuberculosis."

"You did not!" Wilson exclaims.

"I most certainly did." House is proud, and a little buoyed that the oncologist doesn't seem to think it was unjustified. Just impossible.

Wilson regards him with narrow eyes and answers, "Prove it. I'll bet you $50 you can't do it again."

"Ha! What are the conditions?"

"You have to convince three doctors at the next convention that they have life threatening diseases."

House feels excitement build in him. A game. And he freaking loves games. "You're on."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I told you I had more chapters written, so I'm going to go ahead and post chapter two as well. This chapter isn't _that_ different from the previous Chapter Two. I kept whatever I could consider canon.

_**

* * *

House:**__ You're the oncologist; I'm just a lowly infectious disease guy."_  
_**Wilson: **__Hah, yes: just a simple country doctor."

* * *

_

At Princeton General it's required that all Department Heads attend at least four events per year that involve specialties other than their own. Dr. House thinks this is a ridiculous practice, which is why, as a general rule, he ignores this "requirement." But when the Dean of Medicine threatens your already-shaky standing with the hospital it becomes less brave and more stupid to not obey.

Which is why he is spending his Saturday evening milling around the hospital auditorium, waiting on an oncology lecture to begin.

"I heard this Dr. Erikson is supposed to be pretty decent," says a doctor he doesn't recognize. Probably someone from another hospital.

"Well, that may be true," replies the man he's speaking to, "but it's not Erikson that's giving the lecture. They replaced him with Dr. Vicks." At this, the pair groans simultaneously, but House smirks. It's nice to know that other people will suffer with him.

He glances around quickly for a seat and his eyes zoom in on a doctor sitting in the back, holding a book over his face. The obviousness piques his interest so he approaches the doctor, taking the seat beside him. He catches the book and lowers it.

"Jimmy," he cries in delight.

Wilson, for his part, shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "House. Good to see you."

"Were you hiding from me?"

"Of course not?"

House rolls his eyes. "Because you owe me $50? That's a little petty, don't you think?"

Wilson sits up straighter. "Because you're you," he corrects. "And the deal was that you had to convince three doctors that they had life threatening diseases, and based on what I heard from that last conference, you came up short."

"Dr. Collins, plus Dr. Miller, plus Dr. Pierceson equals three."

"Ah, but Dr. Collins, plus Dr. Miller, plus Dr. Pierceson, minus Dr. Pierceson equals two."

House cocks his head to the side and considers. Dr. Pierceson was the last from that evening. He'd been running out of time and had used the first disease that had popped into his mind.

"The plague is a perfectly fatal disease."

"The plague is treatable, which makes it non-life threatening," Wilson counters. "And I don't take checks."

House glares-mostly for show- and shoves two twenties and a ten into the oncologist's waiting hand as Dr. Vicks approaches the podium.

"As you know," the doctor begins, "oncology has uncovered many breakthroughs in the last two years..."

"Hey," House whispers.

No answer.

"Hey, Wilson!"

He watches as Wilson raises his eyes to the ceiling, then flicks them to House to study him. "What?"

"Smashed any more mirrors?"

Now Wilson shifts his whole body sideways. "Contrary to all you may think is possible," Wilson mutters, "some people find it rude to interrupt when someone else is talking."

"Right, I get it, you're indignant on her behalf. Have you? Because if you have, and your luck has tanked even more since I met you, then I think I have a right to know."

"I'm ignoring you."

"Then you suck at it."

"You're bored," Wilson sighs. "Unfortunately for you, I'm not."

"Don't make me interrupt her."

At this Wilson freezes. His left hand that had been busily taking notes stills. "You wouldn't."

"Excuse me, Doctor."

House's voice cuts through the room, visibly startling the speaker.

"Oh god," Wilson moans softly.

Dr. Vicks, who clearly has never suffered an interruption before, blinks blankly at House. "Yes?"

"Dr. Vicks, do you believe in a Higher Power?" House asks cheerfully. If Wilson won't entertain him then fine. This will be just as fun.

It's unclear as to whether or not Vicks realizes that House is toying with her, but nevertheless she answers. "No."

"Why not?"

"If there were such a thing," Vicks responds, peering at him over her glasses, "I doubt He would spend all of His time observing. He would want to make Himself known."

"Why?"

Vicks squints at him in annoyance. "So that all people would worship Him."

House turns this over in his mind. "So, you're saying that the millions of Christians in the world have actually seen God? Or that because you need to see something to believe in it, you figure that everyone else does too?"

The room is silent for a solid twenty seconds before Vicks speaks again. "Dr. Wilson, please escort your friend outside."

"He's not my friend," Wilson rushes to clarify. "I don't even know this man."

"Now!"

"Oh, fine. Come on, House." And with that, the pair leaves the room.

"What the hell is the matter with you," Wilson snaps as soon as the door is closed.

"What do you mean?"

"You make Christians cry. You don't believe in God!"

"So?"

"So, you got us thrown out for no reason other than your boredom. I need that credit."

"You signed in, you'll be fine," House argues. "Now admit it, that was fun."

Wilson purses his lips. "Do 'fun' and 'humiliating' mean the same thing in that messed up brain of yours?"

"You didn't really want to sit through a lecture about stuff you already know." This isn't a question.

"You're insane," Wilson states, lowering himself to the floor. After a beat, House follows suit. He tries not to think about whether or not he's seen a patient vomit on the spot that has become his chair. He distracts himself by asking, "So, how long have you been divorced?" He knows the answer, but it will be less messy if Wilson just tells him himself.

Wilson looks up sharply, but House notices a distinct lack of surprise. "A couple of weeks," he responds. "I got the papers the day we met."

"Huh. Completely mind-blowing."

A smile dances across Wilson's lips. "Why ask a question if you already know the answer?"

"To see what you say the answer is."

"Fair enough."

House likes that he thinks this way. It's strange, the feeling that washes over him as he stares at the other doctor. He's never been good at making friends, (military families are not very conducive to that kind of thing) but he just... likes this man. There's something oddly familiar in the sarcastic smile and off-beat sense of humor. It reminds him of, well, him, actually. But there's a difference too. A touch of innocence that House is pretty sure he's never even possessed.

This is confusing.

"You like monster trucks," House eventually asks.

Wilson raises his eyebrows. "Obsessively.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks for all the adds! Please read and review. As was true before, I really don't know much about poker. Hence the vague. **

_**

* * *

House**_**: **_I was curious. Since I'm not a cat, that's not dangerous._  
_**Wilson**_**: **_I don't think that metaphor was designed to actually warn cats._

* * *

The thing about these Charity Poker Games, House decides, is the seemingly deliberate lack of interesting people. You'd think that, considering that the invites extend to all the hospitals in the area, that the sheer volume of people would ensure that one (other) interesting person would attend. That theory worked in New Orleans. But he hasn't seen or heard from Wilson since the interrupted lecture, so with an inward sigh, he lowers himself into a chair at one of the smaller tables in the front.

"House," greets Dr. Palmer, the player to his right. "Never knew you were such a philanthropist. You do realize that the proceeds fund HIV research? Someone else is going to benefit from your presence."

"Oh, come on," laughs a voice from behind. House whirls around to see Wilson standing over them with the tiniest of grins on his face. "That's probably stretching it a bit."

"Dr. Wilson, are you going to join us," asks Palmer. "I heard that you're quite the poker player."

Wilson smiles at the compliment. "Beating Dr. Jacobs does not a good poker player make."

"You could say that again," House chimes in from his chair.

"House, you don't even know Dr. Jacobs."

House smirks. "No, but anyone that you can beat at poker cannot be that impressive."

"Is that a challenge," Wilson questions.

"Nope, I'm just here for the free food."

"It's a la carte."

"Oh, then yes." He kicks a chair at his friend, who takes a seat. The dealer passes out the cards, states the rules of the hand, then calls for bets.

"So, I'll bite," Wilson says, sizing up his odds and staring at the Ace of Clubs with interest. "How did you end up here? I thought this was for Mercy and Department Heads only."

House rolls his eyes, bets forty. "Evidently being a world famous diagnostician comes in handy for other things besides a parking space with my name on it."

Wilson calls. The next set of cards is dealt. "I had no idea you had such a charitable heart. These doctors are wrong about you."

"I just like to see how many doctors I can dispense panic attacks to by merely being present."

"What's your highest ever?" Wilson asks as the hand ends and collects the chips. House frowns and instructs the dealer to go again.

"16."

Palmer glances up, unable to mask his annoyance. "House," he reprimands. "Remember that "Do no harm thing?"

"If you take the 'no' and change it to the 'k-n-o-w' version that saying takes on a whole new meaning."

Wilson grins, but is distracted from responding by the appearance of a very pretty brunette with almond shaped eyes and a generous smile. She approaches the table but turns her body so that she's only addressing the oncologist. "James," she says quietly. But not so quietly that House can't listen.

"Andrea," Wilson returns. The relaxed body language he'd been exhibiting has vanished and he looks like a caged animal. House calls Wilson's bet and waits for Palmer to go.

"You haven't called me," the woman named Andrea mutters. She attempts to be nonchalant, but the plea in her eyes belies her tone.

"We should probably talk about this later."

"I heard about Sam," she says, and it's clear from her expression that she's looking for shock value, and it's clear from Wilson's expression that she's succeeded.

"It's a hectic time," Wilson says, swallowing hard.

She shrugs and takes the fourth seat at the table. The hand ends again, the chips going to House. "Deal me in."

There's a long moment of moment of uncomfortable silence so thick that Palmer takes his leave. Andrea doesn't seem to notice or if she does, it's obvious she doesn't care.

"So, Andrea, what do you do," House inquires as the hand begins.

"I'm a pediatric nurse," she answers. Her eyes shift to Wilson, then back to her cards.

"And how do you know my buddy Jimmy here?"

At this her face turns a guilty pink and a tiny light bulb goes off in his head. His eyebrows shoot up and he stares at Wilson questioningly.

"She's my sister's friend," he watches Wilson lie, almost smoothly.

He goes out on a limb. "You don't have a sister," he accuses. His reward is the sudden loss of color on the oncologist's face.

"I fold," Wilson says, and jumps to his feet.

"Me too," House agrees. He nearly has to run to keep up with the other. He follows Wilson out of the room, down the hall, and out the front door to the hospital. Wilson collapses on a bench just outside, hyperventilating.

House waits for his breathing to improve before speaking. "It's appropriate that her name is Andrea. People might mistake the large A for a monogram. Although I guess technically you'd be the one brandishing the scarlet letter." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Adulterer!" He finishes by dramatically pointing at him.

Truthfully he doesn't care, but Wilson seems exactly like the kind of guy who would. An anomaly, and House found anomalies interesting.

"Yes," Wilson admits. "I cheated on my ex-wife."

"That why the 'ex'?"

"Among other things. I met Andrea in the cafeteria. She was sitting in the corner, crying. It turned out that her husband had just left."

"Oh, god. How did Sam find out? Earring in the bed? Smell of perfume on your coat?"

"I told her." Wilson looks up and his eyes meet House's. There's a rawness in him, a total vulnerability that makes his stomach flip over. Then Wilson gives a sideways grin. "I'm a little new at this. I may have overreacted a little. I probably shouldn't run out of the room every time she walks in."

"People might start suspecting," House agrees.

"I just didn't expect to see her so soon after… Everything."

House rolls his eyes. "Flawed thinking. She wasn't going to fall off the face of the planet just because you stopped getting naked with her."

"I don't want her to fall off the face of the planet," Wilson objects. "I guess I just thought it would be easier than this."

"Adultery's a bitch."

"You're really great at the supportive thing."

They both smile a little. Then Wilson gets to his feet and follows House back towards the poker game. "Remember Wilson," House says. "If you're going to run away from the pretty nurses, it's better to do it before the cheating. Less messy that way."

"Got it."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I'm obsessed, there's no cure. What do you want me to say? Please review!**

_**

* * *

Wilson**_: Don't you ever eat anything besides canned soup and peanut butter?  
_**House:**_ Don't you ever eat anything that doesn't look like it's been rolled onto your plate by a dung beetle?

* * *

Dr. Wilson is having a bad day. He's already had to break bad news to two of his patients, and his favorite nurse dumped his coffee on his favorite tie. He takes a deep breath to ensure he's not going to flip out.

"Tell Davis I'll be right back," he fumes.

The walk to his locker is short, so once he retrieves his emergency tie, he walks across the street to Alistair's Deli to pick up a club sandwich. He deserves it, he decides.

The lunch crowd clearly anticipated his craving because once he gets there the line is almost out the door. He sighs heavily (it's just going to be one of those days) but doesn't leave because he's going to need nourishment if he's going to face this horrific day. The man behind him is speaking so he eavesdrops to pass the time.

"What time is your flight?"

There's a pause, and then a woman's voice answers. "Not for a couple more hours." The mother, Wilson decides. "We have some time."

"Did I tell you about my last patient? The one with Whipple's Disease?"

It's the name of the disease that makes Wilson turn around. He knows what he'll see before he sees it.

House doesn't look surprised, and Wilson supposes he isn't either. He's starting to wonder if the cosmos are at work here. The woman standing with him is very petite with golden blonde hair, and a kind smile.

"Wilson," House addresses him. "This is my mom. Mom, this is my stalker."

"You're standing behind me," Wilson replies, offering his hand to Mrs. House. "Call me James."

She nods. "And I'm Blythe." Blythe then. "I'm sorry my husband isn't here. I'm meeting him in North Carolina."

"It's a shame," House mutters sarcastically, so quiet that Wilson is certain that only he hears it, yet the look in Blythe's eyes says that she can guess.

But one of Wilson's traits is the ability to defuse a potentially explosive situation, so he shoots Blythe a gentle smile. "So, you're House's-Greg's- mom? You have my deepest sympathies."

She laughs. "How do you know my son?"

House and Wilson exchange a look, because that's a good question. "Just from… around," Wilson eventually responds.

"You make it sound like you're my dealer," House tells him. He turns to his mom. "We met at a convention a few weeks ago. I bailed him out of jail."

Wilson laughs a little nervously. "I broke something in a hotel. By accident," he adds for good measure.

"Yeah, if you count throwing a beer at an antique mirror an accident."

Off Wilson's dark glare, House throws up his hands. "The woman is a human lie detector, Wilson, what did you want me to do?"

Blythe rests a comforting hand on Wilson's arm. "Ignore my son's terrible manners. Would you please join us for lunch?"

He glances at House, who gives a half shrug of approval. "Just don't eat my cheesecake."

Wilson turns back to Blythe. "I'd love to."

So the three find seats outside, and unpack their lunches. "What did you specialize in," Blythe asks, taking a bite of her salad.

"Oncology." He grins self-deprecatingly. "I've heard it's a little depressing to some people."

"It must be hard."

"It has its challenges."

"And you must be very strong."

Wilson is taken off guard by the assessment and falters. "It's not the exact word I would use," he mumbles. Their eyes meet and he understands House's comment about the lie detector. There's a deep perceptiveness that stirs behind her eyes.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Blythe says quickly.

Wilson clears his throat. "No, you didn't. I'm fine."

"Mom, you're embarrassing him," House chides, but the tiny smile on his lips says that he's amused by the dialogue.

Blythe laughs and exchanges an affectionate look with her son. "I'm sorry, James. I just meant that you have a job I could never do. We were going to walk over to Barnes and Noble. Would you like to come?"

Wilson steals a glance at his watch and inwardly winces. He's already going to be 15 minutes late back as it is. He wonders if Davis would believe that he had to take longer to perform emergency CPR to an Alistair's Deli patron. Probably not. "I really wish I could."

"So, come," demands the younger House. "Davis won't notice. He's got his head so far up his own-"

"House!" admonishes Wilson at the same time that Blythe says, "Greg!"

House doesn't bother to conceal a grin and Wilson wonders if it mirrors his own.

"If he can't come he can't come," adds Blythe.

"I really wish I could," he repeats. He stands and is a little surprised when Blythe stands up too, to envelope him in a warm hug. "It was very nice to meet you," she says as they break apart.

"You too."

"I'm not going to hug you," House says defiantly crosses his arms over his chest. But he does get to his feet. "I'll be right back," he tells his mother. He and Wilson walk to the door.

"You play golf," House questions.

Wilson laughs. "If by 'play' you mean 'miss the ball and dig up grass' then yeah, occasionally."

"Let's play," House states, and it's clear that this isn't a request. "I mean, it's really fun just bumping into you everywhere I go, but really, enough is enough."

Wilson thinks he understands. And as he looks back at the diagnostician and sees the strange curiosity behind the bright blue eyes he knows he does.

"Just give me the time and place."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: As always, thanks for the reviews and adds. You guys light up my pathetic life.**

**

* * *

_House_**_: __What, you're saying I've only got one friend?_  
_**Wilson**: __Uh, and who...?_  
_**House**:_ _...Kevin, in Bookkeeping._  
_**Wilson**:_ _Okay, well first of all, his name's Carl._  
_**House**: __I call him Kevin. It's a secret "friendship club" name._

* * *

"This," House begins, gesturing broadly to their surroundings, "is borderline insane."

Wilson raises his eyebrows and looks around too. They're standing outside, and to the most casual observer it might appear that they've gone back in time. Countless men walking around in armor, a twenty-something kid in a black cloak playing other people in chess, a weapons vendor every 100 yards. "What's so strange," he asks, but sarcasm slips into his reply because, really, he gets where House is coming from. A large, voluptuous woman wearing a long green gown that drags the ground when she walks, trips and bumps Wilson.

"Renaissance Festival," House grumbles as they navigate around a regularly dressed man eating a turkey leg the size of his arm. "What the hell were you thinking, telling your patient that we would come out here? Have I mentioned that I hate this kind of crap?"

"A few times now. Look, House, what was I supposed to say? 'Gee, Anne, I'm so glad that you're feeling good enough to go back to work, but no way am I going to see your act at the Renaissance Festival. Leukemia remission is not worth all that trouble."

"It's a waste of money."

"She gave me the tickets for free. Stop complaining. All we have to do is watch her… dancing group thing and then we can be on our way."

"You're going to owe me movie choice privileges for a year," House snaps. They reach the stage where Wilson's ex-patient is set to perform ten minutes early and glance around quickly to find something to pass the time. What House catches sight of makes him rethink his hatred for this insanity. "Does that say 'brewery,'" House gasps, drawing closer to get a better look. Wilson trails quietly behind. "You sell alcohol," House asks the gentleman behind the counter. A sign in the front says "We accept Lady Visa and Master Card."

Dear God.

"Aye, yes, good sir," the man returns, his voce thick with a fake Irish accent.

House chooses to overlook the abhorrent language and examines their stock carefully. He doesn't even know where to begin.

"What do you recommend?" Wilson inquires startling House. He realizes that he might have been preoccupied with his joy.

The glorified bartender gives a wide smile, "We do have a special brew that you might be interested to try. Throw a dollar in me tip jar and I'll use me clean hand."

House nudges Wilson sharply, who sighs and slips a five into the jar. Then the bartender slides them two large mugs. "Enjoy," he says.

Cautiously, House raises his mug to his lips. He takes a careful sip, then almost smiles. "I may have been too quick to judge," he admits.

Wilson tastes his as well and blinks in surprise. "Who knew?"

With a simultaneous shrug the pair make their way to seats up front at the "Maid Marion" stage. Seconds later a young girl steps to the microphone that's been preadjusted to her height.

"Don't heckle," Wilson warns.

"Welcome to our Dancing Troupe. We hope you enjoy the show, and we'll be in the back corners with big buckets for when you want to leave tips. _When_!"

"Shameless," House mutters under his breath. Wilson stares pointedly ahead.

The curtains draw and the dancers step out. Wilson nods at Anne in the back grow. As they move, House turns to his friend and whispers, "This is one of the strangest moments in my life."

"Ditto," Wilson replies. The girls begin throwing rose petals at the crowd, who, for the most part, ooo and ahh appropriately. Wilson, however, struggles for an expression that is not transparently mocking. House, for his part, doesn't try to conceal his disinterest and yawns. Loudly.

"You're going to hell," Wilson hisses under his breath.

"No much thing."

Wilson scoots a little to his right, hoping that if God strikes House with lighting, he won't get caught in the crossfire.

Eventually the performance ends and Wilson and House both get to their feet.

"What did you think," Anne approaches them to ask.

"It was really… inspiring," Wilson finally lies.

The girl smiles at the compliment and looks to House expectantly.

"Bitching," he agrees.

Anne stares in stunned silence and then nervously clears her throat. "Um, well, thanks." And with one last grateful look to her doctor she prances away.

They don't leave though. Now that they have sat through a strange dancing troupe there's nothing left to lose. They wander through the fairgrounds, strolling past a long stream of jewelry stands. They stop to examine handmade silver Lord of the Rings figurines, they browse the candle shop, try on hats at the Mad Hatter. Wilson ducks into a mask store to buy one for his girlfriend.

"Bonnie loves these kinds of things," Wilson comments as he pays and they exit.

House ponders this information carefully. "Let me get this straight. You have a girlfriend who would have actually _wanted_ to attend today's festivities and for some reason you chose to drag me along instead? Are you kidding me?"

Wilson laughs a little anxiously and rubs the back of his neck. "I love Bonnie with all my heart but the mocking of my previous patients is beyond her capabilities. She thinks this kind of stuff is romantic. I think it's, well, have we overused the word 'insane' today?" He looks away then adds, "I just wanted to come with you. Thought if I was going to suffer you should suffer with me."

He expects House to question him more thoroughly, but his friend simply answers a snarky, "Whatever, Jimmy," and steps into an odd store selling Voodoo equipment.

House approaches a doll that somehow manages to look like Bonnie and asks, "Would you think it was weird if I bought this one?"

Wilson narrows his eyes. "Yeah, a little bit."

"Didn't voodoo dolls originate-"

"Don't-" Wilson interrupts off the employee's frown. He hastily changes the subject. "I think I'm going to ask her to marry me."

House spins around. "Excuse me?"

"We're living together, it's time."

House knows in the back of his mind that he should be saying something supportive right about now, as the best friend. "Are you going to ask me to be the best man," is what he settles on.

Wilson studies his friend in silence. "Would you say yes?"

"Yeah. I guess."

He cocks his head to the side and contemplates. "Will you? Be my best man?"

House is taken off guard by the quickening beat of his heart. "Yeah. Whatever. If you want."

"I'd like you to stand up there with me."

"Okay. Let's drop it now."

Wilson grins. "Aww, Greg. Are you crying? Are those tears of happiness that you have one deep and true friend in the world?"

"I'm going to kill you."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! You guys rock.**

_**

* * *

House:**_ _I was not wrong. Everything I said was true. It fit. It was elegant._  
_**Wilson**__: __So, reality was wrong._  
_**House**__:__ Reality is almost always wrong._

* * *

James Wilson is freaking out. Well, not really freaking out, but he's definitely on the panic side of concern. He checks his watch again and the big hand is about 40 minutes past where it should be, considering House still isn't there. Sure, his friend had a habit of being late, but they'd gambled; House had put money on it.

He glances around the bar once more in a misplaced hope that he's simply overlooked the man. When he still only catches sight of an inexplicably tall woman and her counterpart he makes a decision. He gets to his feet and is out the door.

As he drives to Princeton General he tries to get his thoughts straight. House had called him around ten that morning to see if he wanted to get a drink after work. He had said that he should be discharging his patient that evening and needed to celebrate.

He pulls up to the hospital, and parks out front. He's been here so many times that he walks straight to the elevator and presses Up without a second thought. The elevator lifts him to the fifth floor and when he gets out, he makes a sharp left. He walks another fifty feet and is granted the sight of an oak door marked 'Gregory House, M.D.' He knocks sharply.

He hears a shuffle of footsteps and the door swings open.

For a moment he doesn't move or speak. It's House and he's okay. Well, he's alive anyway. But there are dark circles under bloodshot eyes, and his skin is so pale that Wilson isn't sure he's ever seen that color on someone standing up.

"I don't feel like having a drink tonight," House says softly, but the liquor on his breath undercuts his statement.

Wilson pushes gently on the door and gains entry to the room. The door shuts behind him.

"Are you…" His voice trails away as he tries to find a word to complete the question. "Drunk?"

House is silent for several moments before he answers, "I'm working on it."

Wilson sighs, and his snatches the large bottle from the desk. "What happened?"

"Nice try," says House. "You may be stronger, but I fight dirty when necessary."

"House, _what happened_?"

For a moment Wilson thinks that House isn't going to answer him no matter what he takes away, but finally his friend speaks.

"I lost a patient."

Wilson's resolve disappears, and he relaxes his grip on the bottle. House takes it, and pours himself another glass. "I'm sorry," he says. It's true, but he can't ignore the feeling that there's more to this story. "But you've lost patients before." In the months since the Renaissance Festival House had lost three that Wilson can think of off the top of his head.

House's hand trembles slightly at this and he replies, "The family won't let me do an autopsy."

Wilson nods and turns this over in his mind. He tries to think of something to ease the steady pain that his friend is clearly in, but nothing surfaces. Finally he asks, "What do you think it was?"

"Erdheim-Chester Disease."

"Interesting." He glances at his watch and winces. "House, it's getting late. Let's go."

House doesn't respond, choosing to get his things together in silence. The pair walks out of his office, out of the hospital, each focused on his own thoughts.

"I should have saved her," House says quietly. Wilson turns and eyes him sadly.

"There was nothing you could do," Wilson assures him. "You're not supposed to know everything."

"I know." And they both smile a little.

"You wanna come over," Wilson asks as they arrive at his car. He unlocks the doors and they both get in. "Bonnie was cooking for some friends tonight. There might be leftovers."

House laughs dryly. "In that case, no." He shifts his eyes to the oncologist. "But you could come to my place. Watch a movie. I rented 'Vertigo.'"

"I hate that movie," Wilson argues, though he puts the care in Drive.

"I have a theory on that."

"And what's that?"

"The more you watch a movie, the less likely it is to scare you. Face your fears, Jimmy."

"I'm not scared. It's just creepy. Those faces, and the weird colors. The flowers that make people crazy. I'm not a fan."

"It's classic Hitchcock."

"No," Wilson contradicts. "Classic Hitchcock is 'Rear Window.'"

"So, we'll rent that too."

"I'm not watching 'Vertigo.'"

"Jimmy, I'm depressed."

"Not so depressed that you aren't willing to subject yourself to a movie about someone who dies. Twice."

"It's therapy," House insists.

"And what will I use for therapy after innumerous amounts of viewings of that movie?"

House shrugs (then winces at the sharp pain in his head). "I hear molding clay is supposed to be pretty soothing."

Wilson hides a smile as they pull into House's neighborhood. "Fine. But any clay I buy from here on out comes out of your pocket."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: They showed my favorite episode of 'House' today on USA (Failure to Communicate, which is a little ironic considering the limited Hilson interaction, but, still, it **_**is **_**funny). Thus, I decided to post this chapter as a celebration. I might even post the next one tonight too. I dunno. Read and review!**

* * *

_**Wilson: **My whole life is one big compromise. I tiptoe around everyone like they're made of china. I spend all my time analyzing what the effect will be if I say this. Then there's you, you're a reality junkie. If I offered you a comforting lie, you'd smack me over the head with it. Let's not change that._  
_**House: **Okay._

* * *

It's a Saturday evening that House collapses on the love seat at Wilson and Bonnie's apartment. He gets lucky, because it turns out that his best friend's fiancée is out of town visiting family so it's just the two of them.

"I'm in love," he announces before Wilson even has time to shut the door.

"_You're_ in love?"

"Isn't that what I just said? Wilson, try to keep up."

"Sorry," he replies. He takes a seat on the coffee table so that he's facing his friend. "I just didn't realize you were seeing someone." Actually, though he doesn't say this part out loud, he's certain he was still single this morning, because when House is getting laid he can't hide an omnipresent, self-satisfied smirk.

"We just met," House elaborates. Ahh. Some puzzle pieces fall into place.

Wilson arranges his face into what is hopefully an expression of understanding. "Uh huh."

"She was at that paintball thing. She killed me."

"Already she's starting to earn my approval."

"You're hilarious today," House snaps.

Wilson nods and tries to think more seriously. "So, where is she? Am I going to meet her?"

House sighs. "I'm not sure. She doesn't really agree with my assessment of our relationship. She claims she never wants to see me again."

"And so you, naturally, have taken this to mean that you're a match made in heaven?"

"Naturally."

"You're a strange person," Wilson comments, standing and moving to the kitchen. "You want spaghetti for dinner?"

"I can't eat," House moans in despair. "I can only think of my love."

"This is going to be a long night."

So they get drunk and lay out in front of the television.

House rolls over onto his back and says, "I'll bet you $20.00 that she's going to call." He cocks his head to the side, which is quite a feat, considering he's lying on the couch. "Did I tell you that I gave her your number? I knew I was coming over and I'm telling you she won't last 24 hours."

Wilson considers the likelihood and decides not to risk it. "Can you reach the remote," he asks instead. Even in his alcohol laden state he recognizes that something is suddenly making a _lot_ of noise.

"Your phone is ringing," House tells him a little joyfully, and answers the cordless. "Hello?"

Wilson knows immediately that it's the girl because House is shooting him a look victory. "Depends on what you have in mind," he's telling her. "Stacy! Not on a first date!"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Could you be more pleased with yourself?" he asks his friend when he hangs up.

"I'm seeing her tomorrow."

"Dinner at Hooters? Drinks at The Red Door?"

"I like to leave strip joints until the third date."

"Wise." Wilson shifts so that he can eye House. "So, what's she like?"

House ponders the question while pouring vodka into a glass. "She's… You know those cheetahs you see in the wild? The ones that eat their prey only after they _tear them into pieces_? That's her."

"Maybe it _is_ a match made in heaven."

House has to laugh. "Told you."

"So, what's the deal with your dad?"

The question takes House completely off-guard, a rarity. "I'm supposed to be the King of the Non Sequiturs," he hedges.

Wilson struggles to sit up, then settles for propping his head on a pillow. "I've heard stories about your mom, about your teachers, people you went to school with. The only reason I know he's still alive is because your mom mentioned him. So. Talk."

House is silent while he reflects on the best story to describe his relationship with his father. "When I was ten," he eventually begins, "my parents and I lived in Ohio. We had these big oak trees in the backyard that were perfect for climbing. My dad always had reservations about letting me climb up there, but my mom said that it was a right of passage for a growing boy. And one weekend when my mom was out of town visiting a family friend, I fell and broke my arm." House pauses here, his eyes lose focus. It's clear that he's reliving the day in mind's eye. "My dad stood over me for a half hour before he took me to the hospital. It was important, he said, that I learn the hard way. He told the doctors and my mom that he didn't hear me yelling."

"And your mom never knew? You never told her?"

"The punishment of that would have been much worse." A quiet fills the room until Wilson stumbles to his feet, retrieves something small from his room, and returns, concealing it in his hands. "I was saving this for your birthday," he begins. "But you're off tomorrow, I'm off tomorrow. There's' really no reason to wait." He opens his hands, and House's eyebrows shoot up in amazement. He reaches out and takes his present.

"A joint," he states.

"Of the best stuff I could find. If anyone asks, your name is Steven Malloy. There's a lighter in the drawer right there."

House opens the coffee table drawer and pulls out a small black lighter. He lights the joint, inhales, then says, "I have more stories if you have more hidden away somewhere." He hits it again, then passes it to his friend.

"Sorry," Wilson answers. "Just the one."

"Still good though." House watches his friend hit the joint and is struck by the oddness of the situation. That he should have an established connection with someone who fits so perfectly into his strange life.

"Happy birthday, House."

"Thanks."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This chapter was super annoying to write. Sorry it took so long. Reviews are my oxygen.**

**

* * *

_Wilson:_**_ The operation is in two hours, and I'd like you to be there with me._  
_**House:** No._  
_**Wilson:** What... why?_  
_**House:** Because if you die, I'm alone._

_

* * *

_

_He dreams that he's standing on a pier with Wilson. His friend is leaning against the railing, laughing at something he's just said. A warm breeze sweeps through the air, and the sun lights both their faces. _

"_I'm tired," Wilson says, and runs a hand through his hair._

"_You need a haircut," House teases._

"_I'm tired," Wilson repeats. There's a strange expression on his face. It's like he can't even hear his friend._

"_You okay?"_

"_I'm tired."_

House is suddenly jarred awake, and it takes a minute to figure out why. Then he reaches across Stacy and answers the phone.

"Hello?" Beside him, his girlfriend stirs.

"Greg," comes a terrified voice. It's familiar and yet he can't immediately place it. "This is Jennifer Wilson. James's mother."

And with those words he is instantly alert. "What's wrong," he demands.

"There was an accident-" The woman's voice breaks.

"What happened? Is he okay?"

"He was working late. His car slid on the ice."

"Where…" He struggles to ask the important questions, to hold his calm that long, but a hysterical lump forms in the back of his throat.

He feels Stacy take the phone and he numbly gets to his feet, pulling on clothes.

"Jennifer?" There's silence as she listens to the other woman's words. "Where is he," she quietly asks. "How bad is it?" House's heart constricts when Stacy's eyes move to him and he sees the concern in them. She doesn't worry over nothing. "Yes, we're leaving now." She hangs up and stands. As he hands her a shirt he realizes that he's trembling. He still can't speak, but Stacy knows to reach for him.

The drive to the hospital is short in length, but it seems to drag on endlessly. When they finally park and rush inside, House's panic is so high his vision seems cloudy.

_He's going to be okay_, he tells himself. _It's probably just a concussion and a broken ankle. Of course _Wilson'_s mother is going to overreact. Wilson can't even buy a pair of shoes without weighing the pros and cons._ But he can't get the frightened look from Stacy's face off his mind.

Finally, he catches sight of Wilson's parents standing just outside the E.R. waiting room. He's in front of them in four long strides.

"Greg, I'm so glad you're here," Jennifer tells him through tear-stained eyes.

"Where is he," Stacy asks.

"In surgery," answers Evan Wilson, wrapping an arm around his wife. "There was internal bleeding."

"You guys want something to drink? I can go to the cafeteria."

They respond exactly the way House wants them to, and the rush of gratitude he feels for his girlfriend nearly crushes him. "Let's go with her," Evan tells Jennifer, who nods. The three trail away.

House mutely falls into a chair. It's strangely silent tonight-no other sudden catastrophes. He dimly wonders why his face is wet, then realizes he's crying.

He makes an attempt to do what he always does in situations like these-think- but full thoughts are hard to grasp. Instead it's quick flashes of memories: Jimmy hurling a bottle across a crowded room, laughing in his living room; the amusement in his face as he unwrapped the 'Vertigo' poster House bought him for his birthday.

"This cannot be happening," he whispers to himself. He tries to see his life play out without his best friend, and the bleak picture it paints is horrifying. He squints, thinking back on his life before he found Wilson and can't remember it. He knows he's never been more scared.

He hears movement by him and looks up into Bonnie's blank face.

"They called you first," she questions softly.

House stares back, uncomprehending. Wilson's wife turns away. "Is there any news?"

"There's internal bleeding. He's in surgery."

She slowly lowers herself into the chair by House. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"If they decided on emergency surgery, then yeah."

"You look worried."

"I am."

Bonnie drops her head into her hands and lets out a muffled sob. "If something happens to him…"

House's head snaps up. "Don't," he says sharply. "Don't even-" He's cut off by the appearance of a man in a white coat. The sewn-on name says Dr. Andrew Barrett.

"Are you here for James Wilson," the doctor asks.

House and Bonnie both get to their feet. "Yes," says Wilson's wife.

"He got through surgery," Dr. Barrett begins. "We have to see how he handles the next couple of hours."

"Can we see him," Bonnie asks.

"Not yet. We need to give it an hour-let him rest. Let his body focus on healing." As Bonnie continues gathering information, House tunes back out. He knows that the doctor is down-playing Wilson's injuries. Not letting any of the family in to see him speaks volumes.

Stacy and Wilson's parents arrive at that moment, and his girlfriend sits beside him. "You should eat something," she gently encourages.

"No," House answers. He looks at the clock and is surprised to see that it's after three in the morning. They've been there over two hours. Stacy nods, and pulls House's hands close to her heart. Does she understand how deep his affection goes? That piecing a life together without Wilson is simply unacceptable?

The doctor departs and minutes tick by without a word being spoken by anyone. Jennifer eventually gets up and calls Wilson's brother. House overhears the words of comfort that pour out of the woman, and is struck by sudden revulsion. It is almost unbearable to listen to her assure the man on the other end of the line, knowing that it isn't true.

"She has to say that," Evan eventually says. "She can't envision anything else."

Forty-two minutes and thirty six seconds later Dr. Barrett approaches the group again. Fear grips House.

"He's doing well," the doctor tells them, his face relaxing into an easy smile. House takes a shuttering breath, and a hysterical laugh escapes his lips. "He can have visitors. Just one at a time."

His parents look to Bonnie, who looks to House. "Go ahead," she says. House knows that he should put up some type of self-sacrificing protest, but that's just not his way. He follows the doctor down the hall and into recovery. He immediately locates his friend and approaches him. What he sees takes his breath away. Right arm in a cast, cuts across his young face. The gown has fallen past his shoulder, so House can see the deep gashes on his chest while stitches try to pull his skin back together. His stomach in knots, he sits in the chair by the bed. He takes Wilson's left, uninjured hand in his own and weaves his fingers through his friend's.

"You really scared the shit out of me," he breathes. He knows that Wilson can't hear him, but his relief over seeing him moves him into speech. "Bonnie's here. She's pissed because your parents called me first. I wouldn't worry though. Your husband nearly dies, you lose any right to grudges against his parents." He draws marginally closer so that he can rest his head against their hands. "I know you're under a lot of stress right now, Wilson." His voice drops to a whisper. "I know that it's painful and hard and you're probably exhausted. But I am telling you that if you give up now I am seriously going to be pissed. You may think that dying will relieve you of the responsibility of dealing with my fury, but this is me we're talking about. I will find a way to punish you." He pauses. "I kind of need you."

Two hours later Wilson wakes up and this time House is last to go in. When Bonnie finally comes out she's smiling, which he takes to mean only positive things, however he reserves his judgment until he sees for himself.

He doesn't need to worry, though, because in the time since his last visit his best friend has gotten more color, is awake, and in mildly good spirits. He's also high, but even that is good.

"House," he greets.

"I'm not going to say something corny like chastise you for the things you'll do for attention."

"Whew," Wilson returns. "That was my big concern." His eyes meet House's and the turbulent emotions behind the bright blue take him off guard.

"Do not ever do that again," House says huskily. "Seriously."

"I promise," Wilson assures him. "I'm sorry."

"We'll work on the terms of your penance when you get out of here. But here's a preview: expect the words 'Don't worry, House, dinner's on me' to come up. A lot."


End file.
